


Of course I remember.

by CancerianWastelandCat



Series: GazettE FanFics for Black _Lives_Matter [4]
Category: the GazettE (Band)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, band au, emotional fight, loosely cannon based, melancholia, selfdoubt, unspoken love confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CancerianWastelandCat/pseuds/CancerianWastelandCat
Summary: Uruha dares to bring up a topic everyone has been dreading and Aoi gives in.
Relationships: Aoi/Uruha (the GazettE)
Series: GazettE FanFics for Black _Lives_Matter [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783252
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Of course I remember.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdiocyxAngst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdiocyxAngst/gifts).



> Commissioned as part of my GazettE-FanFics-For-BLM project! Thank you so much for participating and I hope my work lives up to your expectations. <3 
> 
> This piece is very, very loosely cannon based on [this interview](https://paradoxsixguns.wordpress.com/2020/06/08/rock-read-067-uruha-aug-2016/) Uruha gave in 2016 and, obviously, the part at the end where he talks about Aoi. Everything else is purely made up! Hope everyone enjoys :)

Uruha had been dreading this moment for a while, terribly. It had been inevitable that it would come to this— he knew that. Yet he was hesitating, twisting the can of beer between his fingers round and round.

He pushed himself away from the counter. Ruki proceeded to give him a wary look, a plea not to risk anything, before he grabbed his jacket and left the studio to meet with the other two.

The occasional _clack clack_ of Aoi’s fingertips on the keyboard of his laptop disrupted the silence he had left them in. Uruha stared down at his beer but his appetite had vanished. The only things left in his stomach now were his fear and his racing pulse. The words prickled on his tongue, and he knew he had to get them out before it was too late. So he dragged his legs across the floor and seated himself on the two-seater across the one Aoi was sitting on. And he swallowed.

“We need to talk.”

Aoi showed no sign that he had heard him whatsoever. His eyes remained focused on his laptop, a single strand of white-dyed hair dangling into them. Uruha bit down on his lip. How long was he supposed to wait? His throat was going tighter and tighter by the second. 

“Well?” Aoi said, still not looking at him. “Talk then.”

Somehow Uruha was glad he didn't have to look him in the eyes while he questioned the entire friendship, and more. Maybe he was going to be fine just sitting here, pouring out his heart without having to _see_ in Aoi’s eyes how much he didn't care anymore. But Uruha didn't want to believe Aoi didn't care. He couldn't. He grit his teeth.

“I want you to look at me,” he pressed out. Finally, Aoi reacted. His shoulders fell with an exasperated huff and something began to _coil_ in Uruha’s stomach. 

“Uruha, I’m working- ”

“ _God damn look at me!”_ it burst out of him, _moving_ him and shooting him to his feet. His palm slammed Aoi’s computer shut before his face and within a mere second, tears were brimming in his eyes. The diamond in Aoi’s crescent-shaped earring flashed beneath the ceiling light as he recoiled at the sight of them. Bitter realization was warping his beautiful features into an expression Uruha wished he didn't automatically know how to read. His chest was heaving and anguish brutally shoved his heartbeat further up his throat. 

“You’re leaving,” he panted. “Aren't you?”

Aoi’s jaw tensed visibly. He sank back against the couch, averting his gaze. 

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to, we all know.” 

And Aoi’s head snapped back around, fury and disappointment sputtering out of his eyes like pieces of smoldering hot coal. 

_“Oh yeah?”_ he spat. “So how come nobody’s tried to talk me out of it yet?”

“I am!” Uruha exclaimed before he could prevent it, gesticulating wildly as he straightened his back.

“ _I am_ because everybody else is _scared_ of you!”

“That’s bullshit.”

 _“It’s not._ You’ve been dismissive and moody and aggressive for months now, you favor your side projects over your own band, you don't show up to meetings and when you do, you’re barely even present and you think we _don't notice?_ We all did and we all wanted to bring it up to you but… they’re scared of your temper. They’re scared that if they say so much as one wrong word you'll get up and leave us all hanging.”

“So since you're the one talking to me now, I take it you _don't_ care if I do.”

“I’m- ”

Uruha’s arms fell to his sides and he sucked in air, but it did nothing to fill his lungs. Defeat began to take over him; defeat, and a deep loathing for Aoi’s stupid stubbornness.

“I care more about you than I’ve ever cared about anyone, Aoi. I shouldn’t need to tell you that,” he said. “All I’m scared of is losing you.” 

If it meant anything to him at all, Aoi didn't show it. His expression hardened and his lips remained sealed. They stared each other down like a hunter their prey, even though Uruha wasn't quite sure which one he was. He was aware though that the air between them was tense like a trigger ready to snap; thick and drilling down his windpipe. But then Aoi moved and Uruha held every ounce of breath he had left. 

“I’m not doing this right now,” Aoi said, getting up. Uruha’s brows rose and his mouth fell open, the air leaving him along with the flimsy pieces of hope he’d held onto.

“What? N-No, wait…”

“I said,” Aoi snapped, thrusting his finger into Uruha’s chest, making him stumble, “I’m _not_ doing this right now.” 

And so he turned. And Uruha could only watch, aghast. With every move Aoi made, he could feel his pulse speeding up where it had dropped down to his stomach. Aoi collected his guitar from the couch and it stumbled upwards. Aoi tucked his instrument into the guitar stand and it leaped further, pounding like thunder against Uruha’s ribs. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream. Panic like this wasn't real, it couldn't ever be this bad. This was a movie, a fake, a nightmare. The muscles in his throat cramped up.

Aoi snatched his jacket off a chair, shrugging it on, and Uruha’s heart hammered so violently right beneath his adam's apple he thought he was going to pass out. In a desperate attempt, he reached for the next best thing his fingers could find and flung it across the room with so much force it wrenched a sob out of him. 

_“Don't you dare turn your back on me, Yuu!”_

The penholder _whooshed_ past Aoi’s head and collided with the door, sending paper clips and ballpens flying across the wooden floor. Aoi froze. Whether it was at the sound of his name or the realization something had just been _thrown at him,_ Uruha didn't know. All he knew was that he was hurting so, so bad; burning himself on his own voice.

“Unless you're planning not to come back.” 

Aoi was struggling— his shoulders strained, his fists balled so hard at his sides his knuckles were white. But he wasn't moving. Why wasn't he moving? Uruha trained his eyes at Aoi’s back, glaring at it so intently as if to _will_ him into turning around with just a glance alone. He wanted to say something, anything, so many things. Instead his mind was playing images before him, memories, projecting them onto Aoi’s shoulder blades like some sappy montage. 

The day they met was there, their first conversation. 

_Where are you from?_

_Mie._

_Oh, that’s so far!_

Their first live performance was there, pictures of the alcohol Aoi had poured him to get rid of the stage fright. Tokyo Dome was there, with its anxiety and euphoria; their first and only kiss. It’d been awkward, wine-induced really and in the middle of a dark parking lot, but to this day Uruha meant every word he’d said. Aoi had never told him if he had believed him. 

Uruha’s teeth clenched with determination. He was _not_ going to lose this. He was _not_ going to lose him. He opened his mouth, ready to bare his soul— and Aoi turned around like he’d read his mind. 

Uruha gulped it all down and his chest fell. Somewhat relieved and somewhat wary, he examined Aoi; his softened countenance and the glistening in his eyes. It made Uruha realize that he hadn't even wiped at his own tears yet. His cheeks felt hot and stained, but it didn't matter now. _Aoi had turned back around,_ and at last he was talking.

“Do you… have any idea,” he said, every word uttered with the utmost control, “how frustrating it is, how humiliating… to have to sit at this table with all of you every week, _knowing_ that no matter what I bring to it, it’s not good enough?”

It dawned on Uruha at this very moment. 

“Knowing that… every time you tell me something’s good enough to be considered, the only reason you tell me is so you can turn around and end up _not_ using it without hurting my stupid feelings? _You_ think _I_ don't notice these things? How nothing I do fits what we’re aiming for because it’s too fucking emotinal and you only ever _do_ pick something when we need a stupid filler song, and you _still_ tell me you need me here?”

“Aoi…”

“ _You_ can play literally everything I’ve ever written. You could replace me anyday and we both know it, Uruha.”

“That’s not true.”

Aoi scoffed, tearing at his hair until it resembled raven feathers broken apart by slithers of snow. He said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes. Uruha felt his heart crumble for him, so much so that he couldn't stop himself from finally bridging the distance between them, rounding the table and the couch until his palms lay flat against Aoi’s cheeks. 

“Listen to me,” he pleaded. Aoi seemed taken aback, but not enough to step away. His jaw remained tense as he returned Uruha’s gaze defiantly. 

“If this is what it’s been bothering you _all this time,_ you could’ve just talked to us. Nobody ever meant to hurt you.”

“I _know_ that, Uruha. But that doesn't change the fact that it hurts to know I’m not capable of contributing anything worthwhile because everything I do is- ”

“Emotional? _Yes,_ and it’s what I love about you!”

Aoi blinked. The word had struck a nerve and Uruha withdrew as soon as he realized. He licked his lips nervously. It was now or never, he supposed. Something inside him had long decided that he would do anything to keep Aoi with them anyway; with him. 

“I-I don't know if you remember what I told y- ”

“Of course I remember.”

“Then you know that it _kills me_ to see you like this! I can't stand the thought that it’s our fault you started doubting yourself like this, and _I’m sorry._ Yes, you're emotional but that’s exactly what sets you apart from the rest of us. If we don't choose a ballad you wrote, it’s because it doesn’t fit the concept but that means _nobody’s_ ballads are chosen. Don't you understand? And _when_ we choose one of your songs, they’re not ‘filler songs’, they’re _bridges,_ Aoi. Any album would fall apart without them.”

For the first time since this had begun, Aoi faltered and his eyes narrowed with doubt. Uruha quickly licked his lips again, sensing the loophole he’d finally carved for himself. He stepped closer, taking Aoi’s hand between both of his own. 

“I don't know what I can say to make you see it. But I can tell you that _I see you._ Anything you do, everything you write, is… ” he shook his head, searching for words. 

“It’s… tragic, haunting, it’s intense and at the same time it’s so incredibly gentle and comforting and hopeful. And then you go on stage with these beautiful songs and you _cry_ and you _live them,_ in front of thousands of people. Every time I see you up there I’m in awe.”

Uruha swallowed, waiting anxiously. Aoi stared at their hands, his countenance now visibly shaken. A thin strand of hair trembled in front of his eyes, and his voice was no better off.

“Maybe I cry because I’m weak,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m just not capable of giving them the performance they deserve.”

Something very painful, very palpable stabbed through every nerve in Uruha’s heart. Shaking his head more forcefully, he tightened his grip on Aoi’s hand.

“You’re _not_ weak,” he said. “You let them _see you_ , Aoi, that’s one of the bravest things you can do. Yet you don't allow yourself to see it and I’m _begging_ you to stop saying you're incapable. You do things with your guitars I can't even wrap my head around. Hanakotoba, Kare Uta…”

“‘Ruha…”

“Bathroom, Gentle Lie…”

“Stop it.” 

“Shiroki Yuuutsu- ”

Aoi tore himself free like he refused to hear it, pushing past Uruha-

“ _Yoin,_ Aoi, _please!”_

-their fingers slipped apart and Uruha twirled around. 

_“We need you!”_

Uruha’s chest surged with an inrush of air. He was almost convinced he was on the brink of hyperventilation, but he didn't let it slow him down. He rushed forward. Aoi saw him coming, blatant despair scrunching up his face— but like earlier, he didn't even wince when Uruha’s palms cupped his cheeks. They were warm, and shaking. 

“Please,” Uruha begged, gazing into his eyes, “you have to understand. None of these songs would be the same without you. You're the only one who really _knows_ them. You're the only one who can bring them to life. I could- Look at me. _Look_ at me. _I could never play like you, Aoi. Even if I tried.”_

And Aoi did look at him; like something had clicked inside his head. Tears sparkled on his skin, but he didn't wipe them away. Uruha gulped. 

“You mean it,” Aoi breathed, incredulous. 

Uruha exhaled, the tension falling from his body like a blanket plummeting to the ground. His eyes fluttered close as his hands sank down against the sides of Aoi’s neck. Their foreheads came to rest against one another.

“Of course I mean it,” Uruha whispered. “The fans need you, Aoi. The band needs you. _I_ need you.”

For a short while, it was quiet. Slowly but surely, the sensations of panic and heat left Uruha, until only the sensation of _Aoi_ remained. Their breaths mingling— his pulse racing beneath Uruha’s thumbs— and then his palm at Uruha’s jaw, tilting his chin up gently, just enough for their lips to meet.

* * *

When Aoi woke up the next morning, he felt light. In fact, he felt like his vision was clearer than it had ever been.

From his nightstand, he took his phone and rolled over on his back, dialing in Ruki’s phone number. It was still early, but Ruki would forgive him, he hoped. When the ringing cut and crackled, neither of them said anything. Only after three seconds or so, did a low chuckle trill from Aoi’s mouth. 

“Hi. I just called because I wanted to apologize for how I treated you guys lately. And to tell you I’m not leaving. I know you’ve been worried.”

Ruki only sighed, but his relief was extremely palpable, even through the phone. 

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “So you… I mean, you’ve really made up your mind?”

Aoi took a deep breath, turning his head. His eyes wandered across the sleeping body next to him, the way his silken bedsheets nestled Uruha’s form like he’d been meant to sleep beneath them since the beginning of time, and he smiled. 

“Yeah, you could say so.”


End file.
